


hotter than the sun, better than the drugs

by ectobaby



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24070561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectobaby/pseuds/ectobaby
Summary: “Yeah. I’m gonna need a frame of reference for that question, bro.”Maybe there was one and he’s just too high to recall, but nothing prepares him for John tilting his head and very seriously asking: “What’s it feel like to get jerked off by a dude?”(Or— John and Dirk get high, watch some porn, and get handsy.)
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Comments: 23
Kudos: 223





	hotter than the sun, better than the drugs

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is just a pretty silly, self-indulgent PWP that i started forever ago and just now got around to finishing while in between working on other projects! i had a lot of fun writing it.
> 
> the title is from "the drugs" by mother mother. so shout out to my friend who sent me this song and said "dirkjohn" right as i was trying to come up with a title. you’re a lifesaver.
> 
> it's 2am. no beta. we die like men.

"What’s it feel like?”

Dirk tilts his head and it slowly rolls against the wooden headboard in a way that makes him way too hyper-aware that he has a skull. John’s looking at him with bleary focus behind his glasses, mouth hanging open like he’s been caught mid-thought. Damn. Even in the slight dark with his eyes red-rimmed, they’re still so blue. Like cobalt sea glass, or maybe something less environmentally uncouth.

What had they been talking about?

“Do you ever think about sea glass?” Dirk asks him. “We throw bottles in the ocean and then nature just, what? Gives ‘em back in the form of some smooth, pretty rock? Then we collect and sell, profit, and repeat. That’s pretty fucked up.”

John blinks rapidly and the silence breaks with that wheezing, snort of a laugh of his. “Dude. What?”

“Never mind, it’s not important,” Dirk tells him because it’s _not_ , and he doesn’t feel like trying to explain the thought process that landed him there. Likening John’s eyes to sea glass might be passing their carefully constructed no-homo threshold. “What did you ask me?”

“Oh,” John says, glancing back down to the freshly packed bowl in his hand. With the other, he nervously flicks the lighter. They’re already blitzed out of their gourds, surely there’s no way John’s thinking of lighting up again so soon. “I asked what it felt like.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna need a frame of reference for that question, bro.”

Maybe there was one and he’s just too high to recall, but nothing prepares him for John tilting his head and very seriously asking: “What’s it feel like to get jerked off by a dude?”

Dirk’s entire mouth goes dry. “What?”

“You know,” John presses, a hint of annoyance like he expected Dirk to just hop aboard that train of thought and ride it to Platonic Boner Town—because that’s exactly where this shit is headed if Dirk has to sit, posted up with his token straight friend, comparing and contrasting handy techniques. “There have to be some differences, right? I mean, you have a preference! Are guys better at it or something?”

“Did some girl yank on your dick a little too hard? Is that it, Egbert?” Dirk asks, eyebrow raised. “I don’t know. I just prefer guys.”

“You’ve been with a girl?”

“No—”

“Then how do you even know what you prefer!”

“I’m not doing this,” Dirk says flatly. Except, he totally is—John looks at him and pouts his lip, front teeth poking out in the bucktooth, dweeby way they always do. Unfortunately, it’s always a solid KO hit to his resolve. His shoulders sag, defeated. “Fine.”

John looks at him expectantly.

“Okay, I guess it’s like this,” Dirk pauses, pursing his lips. His brain still feels more than fuzzy from John smoking him out and he tries to collect his thoughts so he can Tetris together a coherent and appropriate response to this weird-as-fuck inquiry. “There’s just something hot about another guy’s hand on your dick. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s psychological, I think. We can call up Rose and ask her if you want.”

“No,” John says a little too quickly. “God, no. Can you imagine?”

“I’m pretty sure her Freudian Spidey senses are already tingling with this phallic-shaped conversation.”

“Shit,” John laughs. Another snort. “You’re probably right.”

“I usually am. That’s kinda my thing—Suffering from this monumental burden of being fucking right all the time.”

John laughs like he doesn’t believe him. Then, he laughs again, and again, and oh, shit— Dude has the giggles. That’s so cute.

Wait.

No.

He was going going to say amateur.

John leans into him, body shaking with tremors of laughter that he’s desperately trying to hold in. His pupils are blown, eyes watering, and his teeth are biting into his lip and doing a piss-poor job of keeping his wheezes at bay. He’s warm against Dirk’s side, melting into him like hot butter, leaning his head on Dirk’s shoulder and hiccup-laughing away the last of his giggle fit.

And still, the only adverb that Dirk’s sluggish, smoke-clouded mind can muster is _cute._

But then, like the swift swing of his premium-grade katana through the brain fog, Dirk remembers that John had just asked him about handjobs of the male persuasion.

“So, uh.” Dirk licks his lips. “Why’d you want to know?”

“Just curious, I guess,” John says casually. He angles his head back to get a better look at Dirk’s face and smiles innocently.

“Just _curious_ ,” Dirk repeats. “Okay.”

“I feel like a guy’s hands would be rougher.”

There are callouses and ridges of burn scars that lay on his palm, formed by too many years welding together robots, and Dirk absently rubs at them. “Yeah.”

“But bigger,” John continues. For emphasis he spreads out his hand to showcase the length of fingers and width of his palm and, for a moment, they both get lost staring at it. “That might cancel out the callouses.”

Dirk shrugs noncommittally, even though he is very committed. “It helps.”

Nothing is said to that and the room goes quiet, save the low, staticky hum of the television. Their movie ended ages ago and the only thing that remains is a blue screen that casts a glow over the shadows of John’s bedroom, illuminating his profile as he stares at the blank screen, chewing his lip. He’s probably thinking about which shitty movie to pop in next. Archaic as his VHS collection is, John swears it preserves the quality. Which is batshit insane on so many levels. One, his tastes are lacking any quality to preserve. Two, the footage is grainy, and on occasion, the film skips and jumps around the screen, and the sound gets distorted like something out of a horror movie. Yet, still, John insists that _this is how movies are meant to be seen, Dirk._

“So. What are you thinking?”

John’s head snaps to him, eyes wide. It’s hard to tell, but Dirk thinks he might be flushing. He’s certainly toasty. “I, uh,” he stammers. “I was just thinking about how it would happen.”

Oh.

If John isn’t flushing, Dirk definitely is. His whole face feels like it’s on fucking fire. He shifts under the blanket, trying to get a little distance between them, tries to scoot away from where John’s thigh presses hot against his. It doesn’t do a whole lot of good when John scoots right back like a dorky magnet.

“I meant what movie were you thinking about putting on next.”

John cocks an eyebrow, tilting his head. “Huh? Oh. No, I wasn’t thinking about a movie.” He laughs nervously under his breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Unless that movie was a porno featuring a dude getting jerked off, I guess.”

“By another guy?” Dirk asks, just to fucking clarify.

His stomach does an Olympic gold medal backflip when John nods almost demurely, fixating his gaze back on the blank television. Under the blankets, Dirk feels John’s fingers twitch, scratching at his pant leg. And, because he craves a swift death or instant relief, Dirk asks the question that’s now bouncing around in the back of his mind. “You don’t have a porno laying around, right?”

John looks at him like he’s grown a second head, and Dirk swallows, feeling suddenly very stupid. “What? No. Why would I have a porno?”

“Because you’re a guy with a libido in your twenties. Don’t tell me you don’t watch porn. You’re the one that brought that shit up.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t watch it,” John says smugly, shifting to dig around in his back pocket with no regard for personal space. Dirk gets a mouthful of wiry dark hair in the process. “I asked why I would _have_ a porno.”

Maybe he’s still too high, but Dirk isn’t following. John looks at him like he’s denser than Antarctic bottom water and holds up his phone. “Dude. Porn is free.” Unlocking it, he brings up an incognito browser.

Which only means one thing. This ain’t Dirk’s first rodeo.

“Uh,” he says. “What are you doing?”

“You do watch porn, right? The gay kind.”

“Right. The gay kind.” On the screen, John slowly types with his thumb, the sound turned on so every _click, click, click_ reverberates through Dirk’s head. “Alone, though. Usually.”

“Usually,” John parrots with an amused little huff through his nose. “I’m not going to make you watch anything if that’s what you’re thinking.” Admittedly, that _had_ been exactly what Dirk was thinking, and he feels his body deflate in an odd mix of relief and disappointment that John doesn’t notice. “Just help me find a good one to tab for later!”

Unbelievable. He’s about five seconds away from telling John that he doesn’t need any help with this when Dirk realizes that he’s just typed “handjob” in the search bar of a generic porn site. Naturally, the results yield a bunch of heterosexual nonsense and John’s mouth pulls into a frown as he scrolls through up-close shots of feminine hands and acrylic nails wrapped around dicks of varying shapes and sizes.

Dirk sighs. Sometimes, the heterosexual nonsense are the friends you make along the way. He nudges John in the ribs and leans over, taking control of the screen, scrolling to the top so he can click on the tab labeled: _GAY._

“Oh,” John laughs. “Neat.”

Humming, Dirk settles back against the headboard, burrowing in and getting comfy. Definitely not situating himself so that the blanket covers his lap enough that if something involuntarily pops up, he can hide it. What can he say? He’s gay, high, and knows a good dick when he sees one. The chances of getting a semi here aren’t very low.

“So, I just,” he mumbles and opens up the search bar, thumb hovering over the keyboard, “I just type in…”

“Literally the same as before,” Dirk tells him flatly. “Except, maybe something a little more catered to your interest instead of just plain handjobs. Get creative, Egbert. I bet you’re into some real freaky shit. C’mon, go fuckin’ wild, bro. Impress me.”

“Jeez, what are _you_ into?” He stops, holding up a hand like a traffic guard. “No, don’t answer that. But a handjob is a handjob, right?”

“Vanilla,” Dirk accuses.

“I don’t see what ice cream has to do with this.”

“What—” Contrary to his typical stoic masochism, Dirk laughs. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Obviously,” he smarts, then pauses. Head thumping back against the headboard, he looks up at the ceiling with a foggy look in his eyes, mouth quirked in a lopsided, goofy smile. “Ice cream though. Man, I think I have some in the freezer. We should eat that.”

Okay. Dirk has to admit that sounds like a fucking amazing way to combat the dryness on his tongue. Cottonmouth is a bitch. It’s the perfect scapegoat too. A dangling ripcord perfectly poised to eject them straight from this increasingly dangerous situation. He just has to yank on it, and they’ll be chillin’ in the kitchen eating ice cream from the carton like Bridget Jones sans the tearful feelings jam.

“Yeah, sure. Right after we find you some nice, wholesome gay porn.”

“I don’t want _wholesome_ ,” John whines, making a face. “But I also don’t want anything that intense for my first time!”

It probably says a lot about Dirk and who he is as a person, that the phrasing of _that_ particular statement shoots straight to his dick. John’s _first time_. Okay then, alright. This is all totally fine.

“Fair. Just type in whatever.”

“Okay.” Eyebrows scrunching up, tongue poking out in concentration, he seems to think for a moment before eloquently typing _mutual masturbation_ in the search bar. “How about that? Two for one!”

Dirk’s jaw doesn’t want to shut, the skin at the back of his neck prickling, a fuzzy tingling sensation traveling up his thighs. That’s. Huh. That’s something. Not even anything crazy or worthy of some light-hearted kink-shaming, but a hell of a category to pick when you’re bodily pressed against your best bro. A bold fucking move.

“Sounds good,” Dirk says. If John notices the crack in his voice, he doesn’t mention it.

The first couple of videos look low quality and John thumbs past them without much inspection. There’s one he seems to consider, pausing to squint at it—a POV with the angle providing a clear shot of two guys laying next to each other, only in their boxers. The short preview clip shows them reaching over, looping back to the beginning just as fingers dive beneath waistbands. He keeps scrolling.

“What’s wrong with that one?” Dirk asks.

“I’m not going to pick the first one I see!” He skims by a few more, absently humming noises of either disgust or interest. For a brief moment, Dirk thinks he might actually click on the one where there’s more leather than skin, and he lets out a relieved breath when he scrolls past it. The mere thought of John jerking it to something like that is way more than his poor, gay heart can handle.

After a while, John lets out a frustrated groan and shoves his phone towards Dirk. “There are too many options. You decide. You’re the expert!”

“I’m not a gay porn connoisseur or anything. I can’t look at thumbnails and be like, _hmm_ , yes. Though amateur, the craftsmanship is superb. The cameraman really pays special attention to the one dude’s shaft. What it lacks in dirty talk, it makes up for with come shots—"

John scrunches up his face in distaste. “You’re so fucking weird.”

There isn’t much to argue there. Dirk sighs, dropping his shoulders in a defeated shrug. “Honestly? I usually just click on some half-ass interesting video I find on the homepage and it gets the job done just fine.”

He stops on a video with two guys side-by-side on a couch, shirts off, pants unbuttoned. The title reads: _Twink Helps Straight Best Friend Get Off._ No time to think about the irony.

He clicks on it.

“Here,” Dirk mumbles, handing John’s phone back. “This looks pretty decent.”

“Yeah.” It comes out a bit strained. “That looks…fun.”

“Interesting choice in an adjective,” Dirk says mildly. “Not that I’m disagreeing. I’m sure they have an absolute blast—”

“We should make sure!” John blurts out. The eagerness in his voice catches Dirk off guard, and John at least has the decency to look embarrassed by it. He chews his bottom lip and lets his thumb hover over the play icon. “Like, what if it’s one of those videos where it cuts off right at the good part and you have to a third-party site to pay for the rest?”

Jesus Christ, how much fucking porn does this guy watch if he’s been burned enough times to know to look out for something that specific. The video is clearly amateur but on a quality enough camera that it won’t be like watching a bunch of saucy pixels. Point is, it’s definitely _not_ one of those videos.

“You should probably check, just in case,” Dirk says anyway. “At least make sure they actually touch each other. Unless you’re not ready for that level of bro-on-bro action.”

“That’s the whole point.”

Right. He’d been attempting to give John one more solid out but, holy shit, looks like they’re doing this. More time has passed between now and Dirk’s last hook-up than he cares to admit, and even though John’s always painfully been his type, he’s never been a viable option for a little mutual satisfaction. That must explain the unwarranted fluttering in his stomach. Because, again, _not_ his first rodeo by a long shot—and yet he feels miles out of depth. It’s nerve-wracking as hell.

“Hey. Do you want to smoke again first?”

“I don’t know,” John says slowly, wiggling his eyebrows obnoxiously. “Did you bring your parachute?”

Dirk keeps his features neutral and blank. He’s hung around John enough by now to know the cheesy hell that he’s about to experience. “Not this time. Why?”

Picking up the bowl he’d packed earlier, John beams. “Because you’re about to get so high!” And, because he has no shame when it comes to awful comedy, he snort-laughs at his own joke.

Dirk snatches the bowl away and rolls his eyes, lighting up before he can do something irrevocably stupid like _laugh_. Taking a deep breath and holding it, his eyes cut over to see John leaning half-way off the bed, digging around on the floor. He lets the smoke trail lazily from his lips, watching him haul his laptop up to the bed. There’s an SBAHJ sticker on the front that has Dave’s name written all over it.

“It’ll be easier to watch on this,” John explains.

Dirk’s stomach flips, and he busies himself with taking another hit. This is…this is the handsfree approach. Not that he intends to do anything but sit on his fucking hands during this whole awkward ordeal. It does, at least, seem more practical than taking turns bitching about who holds the phone while two guys on the screen jerk it together.

“Makes sense,” he says as casually as he can.

Dirk lets him get everything set up, the laptop coming to fit snuggly between them, forcing them to scoot apart. For the best. There’s no way in hell he’d survive feeling John against him during this. At least by the time he’s passing the bowl to John so that he can finish it off, he’s feeling pleasantly relaxed again, slinking down the headboard and burrowing against the pillow at his back.

He’s unsure of how much time lapses between zoning out, staring at the paused video, and the sound of glass clinking against the nightstand. Leaning over to press play, John cast one last look over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. A silent inquiry.

Dirk gives him a thumbs up.

“Okay, uhm…I’m just going to…” John hits play and slides the cursor over a little, fast-forwarding through the entire damn set-up. When he lets the video resume, both guys already have their dicks out.

Great. Now he doesn’t know what the situation is. Are they friends? Roommates? Is the dark-haired one a math tutor while the other dude is a jock who needs to ace the math exam to stay on the football team? Guess he’ll just have to use his imagination.

John settles back beside him, still at a safe distance. Still too close for Dirk not to notice the radiating body heat. Neither of them say anything. It’s too late now. They’re doing this. They’re making this happen. John can’t laugh and slap a prank label on this when on his laptop are two guys slowly stroking themselves while another porno plays in the background. It’s fifty fucking shades of pornception.

And that makes John and Dirk the chaste, PG13 mirror. Clothes stay on, hands stay above the covers, eyes stay forward. Under the blanket, that’s a different story. Dirk’s already at half-mast. Probably in respect for the brutal and unfair death of his remaining dignity. It was only a matter of time.

Cutting his eyes over, Dirk sees that John’s fingers are curled tight into the comforter. The bulk of it hides whatever is happening underneath, but he’s willing to bet they’re both in similar states of arousal. Kinda hard not to be when there’s heavy, pornographic moaning coming from John’s shitty laptop speakers a few feet away.

Yeah, he’s well on his way to being regrettably hard. The kinda hard where it’s going to hurt if he ignores it. No closing his eyes and thinking of grandma to get this impending bad boy to go down. He’ll have to excuse himself and shamefully jerk off in John’s bathroom. Shit.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” John rasps out. “I’m good. You?”

Not by a fucking long shot. “I’m good.”

“Cool.” Squirming, John makes a miserable noise and looks over to Dirk, catching his bottom lip between his teeth like he’s trying to hold back whatever he’s about to say. It doesn’t work. “Actually, no. If I’m honest? I’m sort of stupidly turned on right now.”

Dirk lets out the breath he’d been holding. “Oh, thank god. So am I.”

“Should we…?”

“Yeah, I’ll just. Give me a second and I’ll go to the bathroom or something.”

John blinks. “Oh, I meant…we can just do what they’re doing?” He nods toward the screen, where the guys in question are still stroking their respective dicks. “If that’s cool with you.”

It’s uncool how cool Dirk is with it. “Yeah. That’s fine. If you’re— Oh, okay then.”

John’s already shucking the blanket off his lap to expose that, yeah, he’s definitely, as he put it, _stupidly turned on_. The shape of his dick strains, pressing prominently against his gym shorts, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Just the sight has Dirk two degrees harder than he was before, mouth going drier than the Sahara.

Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s the trademark oblivious Egbert bravado, or maybe it’s fucking Maybelline. All Dirk knows is that John pulls his dick out like it’s nothing and he nearly astral projects out of his body. There’s no delicacy when John grabs himself either, eyes trained on the laptop, hand moving in slow, languid motions. Like he’s not even privy to the eyes watching him.

That’s because there shouldn’t be eyes on him, Dirk realizes. This ain’t a fucking show for him. His face burns, and he directs his attention back to the screen. Just watch the damn porn. Don’t think about John next to you doing the same thing. Don’t think about John. Period.

The porno guys are at least closer now, sweaty thighs touching while a girl fakes a moan off camera. Pressing his hand to the front of his sweatpants, Dirk tries to focus on their pleasure and not the lazy movement of John’s arm at his side. He slides his hand under his waistband and wraps a hand around his aching dick, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. He doesn’t look over to see if John noticed. Looking over is dangerous.

As the minutes drag out, he learns the hard way that being a leftie is a curse, at least in this situation. Awkwardly touching yourself with your pants still on is difficult enough, but John, who feverishly works himself with his right hand, knocks elbows with Dirk every couple strokes.

It wouldn’t be such a big deal if every skin-on-skin contact didn’t make him full-body throb.

There’s no way in hell he’s bringing it up either. He’s more than keen to sacrifice his own dexterity in order to watch John go at it. The shame is gone, and he doesn’t give jack shit about what’s playing on the laptop anymore because he’s way too fucking entranced by the way John pays special attention the head, pressing his thumb to the slit on every upward stroke.

At most, Dirk just gropes himself like an animal with his hands down his pants.

“Wait. I need—” John twists his body toward the bedside table, using his free hand to root around in the drawer. He comes back with a little bottle, about half full.

“What?”

“Lube,” he explains like Dirk isn’t a gay, adult man. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t get off like this. I’m starting to chafe, dude.”

Dirk absolutely can get off like this. He could probably rut against a pillow at this point, he’s so goddamn worked up just watching John touch himself. But, on second thought. Lube does sound nice. He holds out his palm.

But John has a finger on the pump, withholding, looking down at Dirk’s lap expectantly.

Okay, so he’s really going to make him do this? Fine.

Sighing, Dirk hooks his fingers in his waistband and wiggles them past his hip. His dick bounces free, already considerably wet. It probably won’t take much of the artificial stuff to get him where he needs to be. He should probably be more embarrassed—which, he is. He’s goddamn flushed from head to toe, heart racing while John assesses him.

Dirk jerks his hips upward, seeking his attention. “You gonna share, or what?”

“Yeah,” John mumbles distantly. He gives Dirk a few good pumps of uncomfortably cold lube, then gives him a couple more, and a couple more after that.

Soon, Dirk has to grab himself to start evenly coating his dick before it all starts to collect and run over onto the sheets, and—what the _fuck_ , Egbert? He’s still pumping away, stuck in a weird lube-induced trance, blank stare focused directly between Dirk’s legs.

“Hey, woah. Pump the brakes. My dick is officially a fuckin’ slip-n-slide.”

John snaps out of his glassy-eyed stupor, suddenly back on planet Earth. Looking down at Dirk’s thoroughly coated, greased up situation, he stammers something unintelligible and settles back against the headboard. “Sorry! I’m just—” he laughs, “I’m just really fucking high, man.”

Dirk swallows thickly. “It’s cool. Me too.”

There’s more lube on his lap than he knows what to do with. Enough that he could probably lather himself up from head to toe. Run around like a pig at the state fair. Catch ‘em and you’ll get a nice prize. At least the glide of his hand feels fucking immaculate now. He drops his head back, thumping against the wood and closes his eyes, working his hand over himself.

Something presses into the divot of his hip, and when Dirk cracks one eye open, he finds two of John’s fingers scooping up the excess slick and, without much preamble, applying it directly to himself.

Fuck it.

John just broke the last barrier.

High, horny, and out of his fucking mind, Dirk nudges him with an elbow. “You wanted to know how it felt?”

On the laptop, their digital counterparts are already miles ahead of them. They’re jerking each other off in earnest, and Dirk watches them pointedly, eyebrow raised.

“Oh,” John breathes out. Drops his hand away from himself and juts his hips up. “Okay.”

Wow. Just like that.

Luckily, there’s enough lube on his hand to give five-star handjobs to a conga line and, before he loses his nerve, Dirk reaches over and wraps his fingers around John’s dick and gives him one smooth, experimental stroke. The noise he gets is better than anything found on the internet. John’s hips are lifting straight off the bed and Dirk hasn’t even started stroking him properly.

“Easy,” Dirk murmurs. “I got you. Just relax.”

John nods, sinking back against the mattress. He’s got his bottom lip worried between his teeth; his eyes narrowed down at the hand on his dick. If the lights were on, Dirk might be able to see the flush on his tanned cheeks, his skin is so hot to the touch, it'd have to be there.

Dirk gives him a moment before he strokes again, slowly from base to tip. Using the information that he gathered from watching, he knows to linger at the top, squeezing and twisting, pressing his thumb just beneath the flat of his head. It’s easier to get a feel for what he’s working with when he’s literally getting a feel. Stolen glances didn’t do John justice. He’s not as long as Dirk is, but that hardly matters when he’s so fucking thick that Dirk has a hard time wrapping his fingers around the circumference of him.

It’s crying shame that he can’t put his mouth on him.

Instead, he pulls up slowly, grips tight, and milk a bead of precome. Air whistles from between John’s clenched teeth and Dirk figures he can show a little mercy, bad as he wants to draw this out. No more teasing strokes. As much as he’d like to pull out all his fancy tricks, the satisfaction of hearing John curse under his breath and the honest-to-god _whine_ that he lets out when Dirk speeds his hand up, trumps everything else.

He’s got both eyes on the prize, and that prize is making John come all over himself.

The slap wet slap on his thigh barely registers, he’s so caught up in channeling all his attention on that task at hand. He tears his eyes away long enough to see John’s groping toward his dick.

Oh, _hell yes_.

Dirk cants his hips to help him along. John’s a lot less tactful in his advances. He gets one hand wrapped around Dirk’s dick and matches the quick pace on his own, albeit a bit clumsy. Doesn’t matter. Dirk’s hyper-sensitive from the smoke rolling around in his head, his neglected erection, and the adrenaline rush from touching John _fucking_ Egbert.

It’s the best goddamn thing he’s ever felt in his life, and he kinda wants to tell him that. They’ve all but kicked the laptop to the edge of the bed, and he’s not sure when the video ended, but the only sounds now are the heavy, conjoined breathing. Guess it’s up to him to fill in the gaps. Give John the porno-grade dirty talk he deserves.

Rolling his head to the side, Dirk presses his lips against John’s ear. “Feels good,” he slurs, low and quiet. “You feel so fuckin’ good. How’s it feel, huh?”

The hand on his dick falters. John tenses and lets out a shuddering breath, the tail end of it morphing into a laugh. “Shut up. _Fuck._ ”

“Not ‘til you tell me how much you like me touchin’ your cock,” Dirk says. There’s a smile in his voice, grinning against the shell of John’s ear. He’s joking. Mostly.

But, for a brief moment, he wonders if maybe that was a step over the line in the wrong direction. John’s grasp goes slack, and his hand drops away, finding Dirk’s thigh instead and squeezing hard. He lets out a low, desperate noise and arches up again, head tilted back against the headboard. Behind his glasses, his lashes flutter rapidly against his cheek, the coiled tension in his body damn near palpable.

“That’s right,” Dirk whispers, tightening his fist and stilling his pace. His lips remain pressed to the side of John’s head and it’s difficult to resist the urge to kiss his sweat-slicked temple. “Take what you need. C’mon, fuck my fist.”

The fingers pressed against his thigh dig in harder, and Dirk knows they’ll leave dotted bruises come the morning. And, for the first time, John outright moans and it’s fucking filthy sound in the space between them.

His hips barely make three weak pumps up into Dirk’s tight fist before he’s mumbling, “I’m gonna— _shit, shit_. Fuck. I’m.”

That’s the ticket.

“Let me see,” Dirk tells him. “Let me see you.”

John’s body goes taut like a bowstring and he pulses over Dirk’s hand, shooting against his stomach and shirt. Dirk works him through it slowly, shushing him quietly while he comes down, soothing him until his breathing regulates back to normal.

When he’s had enough, he bats Dirk’s sticky hand away. He lays there, boneless and sated, humming pleasantly. Satisfied. His head rolls lazily to the side, eyes pointedly zoning in on Dirk’s lap, where he’s still very much erect.

“You’re still—”

“Yeah, I got it,” Dirk mutters. His southern twang always tends to get a little more prominent when he’s high or horny. In this case, both. Or, maybe he’s laying it on a little thick ‘cause he knows John likes it. But that's between him, God, and Matthew McConaughey. “You ain’t gotta do a thing.”

Even though he’s just got John off, Dirk finds it a little…awkward to take himself in hand. At least this won’t take much of anything. He figures a few good—

John swings a leg over Dirk’s thighs, hauling himself up to straddle his lap. He’s got his shorts pulled back up, fully clothed, while his thighs bracket very bare hips. Doesn’t even seem the least bit concerned. Looking down, he gives Dirk a sleepy sort of grin and he wraps his hand around his achingly hard dick.

All of Dirk’s breath leaves him in a gust, brain short-circuiting.

John hums lowly, sets his pace to light and teasing. As tightly wound as Dirk is, it’s not enough to get him off. “What if I want to?”

Dirk grits his teeth and drops his head back to look at John properly. With his eyes adjusted the dark and light of the blue-screened television, he gets a cloudy confirmation that yeah, he’s still fucking unfairly attractive. Even with that shit-eating grin spreading across his face and his feather-light touches.

Settling his hands on John’s hips, Dirk drags him closer. “I guess that I’d tell you to get on with it. Put me outta my misery.”

John laughs and presses their foreheads together. “Guess you are pretty miserable, huh?”

Whatever surely witty retort Dirk has on his tongue dies with a sharp moan when John squeezes and sets a much more finessed pace than his last attempt at a handjob. Angles make all the difference. So close, Dirk can feel every hot hitch of breath John lets out, and he can feel his own echoed back to him. Intimate in a way their last round wasn’t. There are no false pretenses. No porn egging them on. Just John on his lap with his hand on his dick and his mouth close enough to fucking kiss.

Dirk’s hand tightens at John’s waist and he comes easily. There’s no big production, for the most part, he stays pretty quiet, and it’s…comfortable. Their foreheads stay pressed together, and Dirk doesn’t so much see John smile as he does feel it.

Well, they’ve gotten this far. Might as well go for the homestretch.

Dirk tilts his head up, but it’s John that kisses him. It’s not hot-and-heavy, they’re both far too tired for that now. Instead, Dirk opens slow and lets John take the lead, just in case he wants to back out. He doesn’t. He licks his way past Dirk’s parted lips, pulling back every so often press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, to his bottom lip. It’s nice, and Dirk sinks into the fuzzy feeling of post-orgasm bliss and a lingering high and lets himself be kissed.

It doesn’t go past a few playful bites, and John’s fingers tangling in Dirk’s hair. Only when he remembers exactly where those hands have been, does Dirk pull back. “You better have wiped your hand off.”

“You know I didn’t,” he says.

Dirk opens his mouth to protest John stops him, placing his hands on his shoulders and pushing him back lightly so that there’s enough distance between them for Dirk to catalog the seriousness on his face. It’s sobering.

“What?”

“I was wondering something.” John pauses, biting at his lip. “Do you, uh…”

Oh, fuck. Here it comes. The other shoe.

_Do you, uh…think we’re an item now?_

_Do you, uh…mind keeping this between us?_

_Do you, uh…not want to bring this up again?_

Dirk is prepared for them all.

What he’s not prepared for is John looking him dead in the eye and asking: “Do you want to go get that ice cream now?”

Relief leaves his body in a rush, his shoulders sagging and shaking with tremors of barely-concealed laughter. It's almost deja-vu. He regains his composure and clears his throat, ignoring the affronted look on John’s face. “Yeah, sure.”

“Oh, thank god,” John says like he was genuinely worried Dirk didn’t want to fucking get ice cream. “I’ve been thinking about it since you brought it up.”

Dirk decides to politely ignore the fact that he never once brought it up. Vanilla was strictly in reference to his bedroom practices. Which, hey, might not be so accurate. He drags his hands up John’s sides and squeezes him beneath his ribs. “Were you? Is that why you came so hard?”

John shoves at his chest, not an ounce of sincerity when he says: “You’re the worst.”

“Not going to argue with that. I have a better idea though.”

“I bet it’s super fucking lame.”

Letting go of his sides, Dirk settles back against the headboard, folding his hands behind his head. He’s not smiling, he’s smirking. There’s a difference. “You bring the ice cream up here and we eat it straight out of the carton. I’ll even put a movie on while you’re gone. It’ll be hard not to pick a shitty one out of your collection, but I think I can manage to find something that's not unbearable.”

John snorts and rolls off him. “Yeah, sorry that I don’t have your favorite season of My Little Pony!”

“You should be.”

“You’re an asshole,” John accuses. It’s pretty obvious he’s joking, part of their playful banter, but he pauses and frowns. He’s by the door now, fingers tapping restlessly on the frame while he thinks. “You know that’s why I like you though, right?”

Something in Dirk’s chest flutters.

“Yeah,” he lies. He had no clue. Just five seconds ago, despite two handjobs and a pretty sweet make-out session, he was convinced he was getting the boot. “Obviously.”

John beams. “Cool! I’ll be back. You better not pick anything stupid.”

“They’re all stupid.”

Too late. He’s already out the door. Nobody there to hear his sick burn.

Turning back to the task at hand, he moves to sit on the edge of the bed to stare at John’s movie collection. Some of them aren’t bad, but Dirk would sooner cut off his head than ever admit it. He settles for the least obnoxious Nicolas Cage movie he sees and gets it all set up. Stripping off his dirty clothes, he crawls under the blankets and gets situated. Maybe a bold assumption but…John had said he liked him, right? Besides that, this is purely a sanitary move. A decision made solely with John’s bedding in mind.

By the time he gets back, he sees that John’s stripped down to his underwear, a clean pair which means that he stopped by the laundry room. This must mean that he forewent pajamas purposely and at least makes Dirk feel a little less insecure about being completely naked in a straight dude’s bed.

When John flips backs the blankets and discovers this, he doesn’t say anything. Just grins stupidly.

That makes him feel a little better too.

Like all the movies they watch together, Dirk barely pays attention. They each shovel ice cream down their throats like fucking heathens, and when John drips a little on his chest, Dirk leans in and licks it off, and John tells him that he’s disgusting but the carton ends up discarded to melt and get the bedside table sticky.

“Hey,” Dirk says quietly, apropos of nothing. “You know I like you too, right?”

John turns in his arms, getting a hand on the back of his neck. He smells like weed and French vanilla, and by all rights, that should be a horrid combination. On him, it smells good—or maybe he’s just too far gone. He’s waded too far out into the current and got swept up in meaningless curiosity.

John tugs on his neck and pulls him back in.

“Obviously.”

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always appreciated & if you wanna talk about dirkjohn with me, i'm on twitter (@ectobabe) and insta (@ectobaby)


End file.
